


The Burden of Tradition

by tinzelda



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas fluff, in which there is mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burden of Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Pharis for brilliant (as always) and helpful beta. Thanks also to Wendymr for kindly agreeing to Britpick on extremely short notice and for good suggestions. (And thanks to Vsee for introducing me to these two and spending an inordinate amount of time talking with me about their ties.)

“Fancy a pint?” Lewis suggested as Hathaway pulled on his overcoat.

“With pleasure, sir.”

They had finished their case with perfect timing: an arrest in the small hours of the morning and most of the day in the interrogation room. The next day would be filled with paperwork, but most of the loose ends should be tied up by late afternoon, when Lewis was scheduled to drive to Lyn’s in time for tea on Christmas Eve. It put James in a surprisingly celebratory mood, and Lewis seemed equally cheerful.

The air outside was bitingly cold, but the skies were crystal clear.

“Shall we walk, sir?”

Lewis agreed with a nod. They passed a shop window filled with cashmere scarves and jumpers: beautiful subdued rusts and browns, as well as bright jewel tones. Lewis paused. “I’d like to get one more thing for Lyn. You mind?”

“Not at all.”

Lewis gestured at the papers taped in the window: XMAS SALE. “Are you one of those that’s bothered by the X?” he asked as he held the door open for James.

“It’s not actually meant to be an X.” James unbuttoned his overcoat once he’d stepped into shop, which was stiflingly hot. It seemed to James that customers might buy more if they were chilled rather than baking. “It’s the Greek letter chi, and there’s a long tradition of its use. It wasn’t invented so shops don’t have to squeeze the word ‘Christmas’ onto their signs.”

While Lewis looked at a table of cardigans, James picked up a scarf, rubbing the wool between his fingers. It was very finely made, even softer than he’d expected. A glance at the price tag told him it would be an overly extravagant indulgence, so he folded it neatly and replaced it with the others on the shelf.

“Hathaway.”

James looked up and saw Lewis holding the rich garnet-coloured cardigan he’d chosen for Lyn. He made a face and pointed toward the counter, where a mass of holiday shoppers hid the shop assistants from view. James gestured toward the door to indicate that he’d wait outside, and Lewis nodded. The brisk air outside was a relief after the stifling heat of the shop. James leaned against the brick ledge under the front window. After a brief internal debate, he decided not to pull out his cigarettes. He felt content, relaxed in a way that seemed completely new, and reminded himself not to make too much of Lewis’s simple invitation for an after-work drink.

When Lewis emerged from the shop, he groused about the queue, but he was smiling. James left his perch by the window, eager to head off to the pub, but Lewis wasn’t ready—still rummaging in the shopping bag. He pulled out a scarf and reached out to drape it around James’s neck.

“Merry Christmas, sergeant.”

James was speechless for a moment, first in surprise, then in embarrassment—he hadn’t bought a present for Lewis. He looked down at the scarf. It was so dark that it looked black, but when he turned into the light from the shop window he could see that it was a deep, vibrant purple. He touched it with one hand. It was the same incredibly soft wool that he’d coveted in the shop. When he finally found his tongue, all that came out was, “Purple?”

Lewis grinned. “Thought it’d go with those socks of yours.”

James told himself this was only Lewis’s generosity. His pleasure in the season. It didn’t mean anything more than that. “Thank you, sir.”

Lewis smiled again, then turned away and began to weave through the crowd. “And if you thought about getting me anything, you can just forget it. Your Christmas present to me is to keep feeding me takeaway most of the week.”

“Gladly, sir.”

Lewis stopped in front of an unfamiliar pub and opened the door, stepping back for James to enter ahead of him. At first, James was only relieved that the interior wasn’t as stiflingly heated as the wool shop, but then he saw Innocent standing not five feet away. Behind her, a large group from the station were gathered around several tables that had been pushed together. Lewis had dragged James to an office Christmas party.

James frowned—he’d hoped for one last quiet evening together before Lewis left to spend Christmas with Lyn—and Lewis looked sheepish. He knew perfectly well James wouldn’t have come if he’d known. James rolled his eyes, and Lewis grinned, knowing immediately that he was forgiven.

“Just one drink,” Lewis said. He took James’s arm to drag him over to the table. James considered exaggerating his resistance, which might prolong the time Lewis would have his hands on him. Indeed, during the brief moment when James was considering this pathetic scheme, Lewis pressed at the small of James’s back to push him forward. But James forced himself to take a step, and Lewis’s hands fell away.

Their arrival prompted a flurry of holiday greetings. Julie rushed over to give Lewis a hug, and someone handed him a pint. It was almost as if James were invisible. Not that he minded—he might be able to slip away unnoticed. But Lewis grabbed his arm again, pulling him into the crowd.

“Merry Christmas, Sarge.”

James turned and found Gurdip at his elbow, a glass in each hand. He offered one to James, who forced a smile as he took it.

There was a lot of chatter, but of the sort James hated: everyone too jolly or too tipsy to have an intelligent conversation about anything. He settled himself into a chair next to Lewis, promising himself he’d leave after he’d finished his drink. But before he’d taken his last sip, another glass was set on the table in front of him. He was about to refuse, politely, of course, but Lewis smiled at him, and his obvious pleasure at having James there made it impossible to leave. He would go after he finished his second pint.

The shallow conversation didn’t seem to annoy Lewis at all. He was laughing and raising his glass in a toast, though James missed who or what was being toasted. He turned and held his drink out to James, who tapped his own glass against it, manufacturing another smile.

Half an hour later, James was sitting forward, trying to get his hand into the sleeve of his coat, which was hanging over the back of his chair, when he felt Lewis’s knee pressing against his. He froze and looked at Lewis, who was oblivious to the effect this casual contact had on James—he was only leaning over to talk with Laura at the other end of the table. But it was enough to make James give up on his coat and nod with resignation when asked if he wanted another pint.

He was well into his fourth—or was it his fifth?—when he realised that he was staring at Lewis and forced himself to look away. He saw Gurdip and Julie talking, a bit apart from the group, and was startled to note that Gurdip was brazenly flirting with her. James couldn’t imagine that she might be seriously interested in Gurdip, but when he pointed up at the mistletoe dangling from one of the wooden beams overhead, she laughed and tilted her face toward him so that he could kiss her cheek.

James didn’t even realise he was frowning until Lewis’s voice sounded in his ear.

“Lighten up, lad,” he said, clapping James on the back. “It’s tradition.”

It made James want to argue. He’d always assumed that mistletoe was one of those ridiculous Victorian inventions. But when he pulled out his mobile, a quick online search—with his phone hidden under the table, of course—informed him that the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe in England dated from the sixteenth century.

Lewis’s attention was already back on the conversation, so James rose from his seat. It wasn’t until he was on his feet and attempting to walk through the crowd that he realised how much he’d had to drink. And he hadn’t slept much for days, nor eaten anything since Lewis had dropped a plastic-wrapped sandwich onto his desk early in the afternoon. He paused for a moment to steady himself, then went to find the loo.

While he was washing his hands, he read the notices on the blackboard hung on the wall over the sinks. The pub had live music at weekends, but the names of the bands weren’t familiar and didn’t spark any interest. James noticed that there was a piece of blue chalk resting on the narrow tray at the base of the blackboard. Without even thinking, he reached out, picked up the chalk, and wrote on t¬he board:

JH  
+  
RL

It gave him a rush of foolish pleasure. He could feel his cheeks getting warm. It was laughable. Embarrassing. But appropriate too, James supposed, given that his feelings for Lewis were like a schoolboy crush. Or at least they’d started that way.

After staring at the blackboard for several long minutes, James lifted his hand to rub out the letters. Incriminating evidence. But instead of erasing them, he picked up the chalk again and drew a heart around them. It was silly. Bloody stupid, really, but it satisfied something in him.

When he returned to the table, Lewis eyed him warily. “Are you drunk?”

James’s denial was swift and automatic, but when he saw Lewis’s expression, sceptical but amused, he reconsidered and decided there was no reason not to answer truthfully. “A little.”

The twinkle that appeared in Lewis’s eye coaxed a small grin onto James’s face, though he knew he must look like an idiot. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, very.”

Lewis smiled at him. “Come on then. Let me take you home.”

“I thought you’d never ask, sir.”

Lewis didn’t bat an eyelash at James’s remark. He never did, did he? James could say outrageously suggestive things, but it seemed that if he said them in that dry tone, Lewis wou¬ld accept them without comment.

James stumbled and, when Lewis put an arm around him, leaned close as they walked back to the station car park. While Lewis drove him home, James thought about mistletoe. It seemed such a wholesome tradition: chaste, blushing kisses under sprigs of winter greenery. But, according to what he’d read online, mistletoe may very well have come to represent romance because its glossy white berries resembled drops of semen. So it didn’t connote just innocent romance. Mistletoe was a symbol of virility, vitality, and passion. James wanted to explain this to Lewis—he couldn’t stop thinking about it—but of course he didn’t.

“I’ll walk you in,” Lewis said when they arrived at James’s flat.

“That’s not necessary, sir.”

James fumbled with his keys, so Lewis took them from him—his hands felt warm on James’s cold fingers.

“Where are your gloves, man?”

“I . . .” James tried to stuff his hand into his pocket to check whether his gloves were there. “I don’t—”

“Never mind,” Lewis said. “You’re home now.”

Lewis had the door open now and put his arm around James’s waist to guide him over the threshold. James pulled off his overcoat and tossed it onto a chair, but he left the scarf that Lewis had given him wrapped around his neck. He turned to find Lewis looking at him with a mixture of concern and amusement. “All right?”

James nodded. “Thank you for seeing me home safely,” he said, and then he laughed at the ludicrous formality of the statement.

“Hathaway?”

Lewis was looking at James as if fearing he’d gone mad. Perhaps he had. He strode across the floor, took Lewis’s face in both hands, and kissed him.

It was surreal: the sound of surprise that erupted from Lewis’s throat. His lips, warm and soft. James pushed closer, wrapping his arms around Lewis’s body, pressing close with chest and hips and thighs, desperate for whatever he could steal. Lewis felt so very _right_ in the circle of his arms. James didn’t want to ever let go, but he found he couldn’t catch his breath.

“James,” Lewis said. It wasn’t a question, but he was looking at James intently.

The giddy audacity that had prompted James moments before evaporated instantly, and cold fear took its place. “Mistletoe, sir,” he said. He tried to sound merry and blithe, but he still couldn’t breathe. “It’s tradition.”

He realised he was still clinging to Lewis and jumped away. He dared one glance at Lewis’s face. He was staring, open-mouthed, speechless. James fled to his room and threw himself on the bed. He lay still with his heart pounding, his head spinning, waiting.

After a long silence, he heard Lewis walking out of the flat, closing the door behind him.

*****

James woke at dawn the next morning, still in his clothes. They felt too tight, his trousers twisted around his legs. There was a terrible taste in his mouth, as if something had crawled in and died, and his head was pounding. Precisely how many pints had he had last night?

Last night. James groaned and pulled a pillow over his head.

He’d kissed his governor. _Kissed_ him.

It was one thing to harbour secret feelings for him, feelings that ranged from puppy-ish affection to filthy lust, depending on the degree of brilliance and charisma he was displaying on any given day, as well as the amount of self-control James was able to summon. But to allow any of it to leak out, to kiss him . . . .

James decided he would leave a message at Lewis’s desk that he felt ill. It was the truth, after all. But the thought of not seeing Lewis before he left for Lyn’s, not seeing him again until after Christmas, fretting all the while over what he might be thinking—James couldn’t bear it. Imagining Lewis’s reaction had to be worse than facing it. He was kind. He would do his best to prevent James dying from shame.

*****

James was at his desk when Lewis arrived. He set a large steaming paper cup of coffee down next to the Red Bull can James had drained all too quickly.

“Bless you, sir,” James said quietly.

Lewis gave a little chuckle, and James waited for the pat on the shoulder he was sure would come, but Lewis went immediately back to his desk and turned on his computer.

So that’s how it would be then. Lewis would not embarrass his sergeant by bringing up his regrettable behaviour but would keep a professional distance between them, not allowing anything that might be misinterpreted. They spoke only of practical matters. James typed up forms and reports, Lewis approved them, and by three o’clock James was standing in the car park watching as Lewis headed off to Lyn’s.

James unlocked his own car and climbed in. He indulged in a moment of self-pity, then several minutes of self-flagellation, before pushing it all into the gaping hollow space in his belly and resolving not to think about it any more. He had a concert to prepare for.

Various local musicians were performing in the church where James’s group rehearsed, and James had been looking forward to it. He tried to recapture his enthusiasm, but it was obvious that he wasn’t brimming with Christmas cheer. As they waited for their turn to play, Thomas, the pianist, kept glancing his way anxiously, until James managed to plaster on a bit of a smile.

It all went very well—James was able to lose himself in the music. But when the concert was over, James stood on his own watching the others. Thomas’s wife rushed up to speak to him. Garrett’s family was there was well: his wife and two little daughters, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and his sulking teenage son.

“Wonderful performance, James.”

James turned and found the smiling face of Father Andrew. James rather liked the old man, but at that moment he was sure Father Andrew had approached him only because it was so painfully obvious that he had no one else to talk to. James forced himself to be polite. “Thank you, Father.”

“Are you staying for mass?” His concern for James couldn’t have been more obvious.

“No, I’ll have to be leaving very soon,” James explained. “I’m attending mass with my parents.”

The worry lines on Father Andrew’s face faded. He gave James a vague smile before turning away. James watched him greeting other people in the crowd. He had a sudden urge to ask Father Andrew to hear his confession but doubted that a clumsy kiss under nonexistent mistletoe, while wildly inappropriate, constituted a sin. What he’d _imagined_? That was, perhaps, a different story, but he wasn’t going to tell Father Andrew about any of that.

There was to be a party of sorts in the parish hall. Garrett was already herding his girls in that general direction. James could picture it precisely: fruitcake and sickly sweet punch. He bent to pick up his guitar case and slipped out to the quiet street.

He’d already packed his things, so he didn’t even have to stop at his flat. He did, however, desperately need caffeine, so he pulled into a petrol station just before getting on the M40. The coffee was terrible, but it was strong enough to keep him alert. He took a few bracing sips.

Before he started the engine, he dug into his coat pocket for his phone and typed: _Sir, I want to apologize for my actions last night. My behaviour was inappropriate. Please forgive me and forget the incident entirely._ But instead of sending the message, he deleted it. He did want forgiveness, but it would be lying to say that he wanted Lewis to forget the kiss.

*****

James timed his arrival perfectly. There was only enough time for him to stow his bag in the spare room and splash some water on his face before it was time to leave for mass.

The choir was surprisingly good. James felt the tension in his neck relax as he listened to the familiar music. He could see his mother out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes were closed. Was she praying? James looked past her to his father, who sat with his arms crossed over his chest, respectful but bored.

It was a scene straight out of James’s adolescence, and he was embarrassed to remember the heady feeling of superiority that he used to relish—the knowledge that he, unlike his practical father, could fathom the glorious mysteries, feel them in his core. He had a terrible fear that this childish arrogance was part of what drove him into seminary—that his intense piety had been a way to rebel to which his father, still a Catholic if only by habit, could not openly object. Had he really been so contrary? Perhaps he had been. After all, when he’d considered becoming a policeman, one of the few arguments against it was that his father, thinking it a useful profession, would probably approve.

The drive home was quiet. James’s mother offered a few comments about how lovely the service had been, but neither James nor his father responded beyond monosyllables. James escaped upstairs as soon as they arrived back at the house and settled into bed after a hot shower.

The room was chilly, but James didn’t mind. He was all too aware of being a guest—he had never lived in this house. His parents had moved into it only a few years before. The cool air made the warmth under the duvet seem that much more snug, more welcoming.

He was exhausted but knew he wouldn’t fall asleep quickly. In the dark and quiet, he couldn’t help but think about Lewis. That kiss.

He wished he had a clearer memory of the moment, actually. It was clouded in his mind by alcohol, desire, and adrenaline. He clearly remembered the feel of Lewis in his arms—the solid warmth of him. And he hadn’t pushed James away, had he? His expression afterward—James couldn’t really picture it. Surprised? Disgusted? James didn’t think so. Mostly what James remembered was the exhilaration that had bubbled up in his chest as he’d reached out to cradle Lewis’s jaw in his hands.

He allowed himself to wonder, just for a moment, what kind of lover Lewis would be. Generous, certainly. He always thought of others before himself. And he was perceptive.

 _Good Lord_ , James thought. _Maybe this isn’t a good idea_. He simply could not have a guilt-ridden wank in his parents’ spare room on Christmas Eve. Besides, wouldn’t Lewis be a bit conservative? Conventional in his tastes? He had been married for twenty years. Of course, to be happily married for so long, maybe they’d had to be creative, so as not to grow bored with each other.

It occurred to James that this was beyond inappropriate now, thinking not only of his governor but his governor’s wife. James shook his head, trying to get his unruly mind back where it belonged. He pictured Lewis with his disapproving face on, dressed for work in a suit and tie. The dark grey suit with the pinstripes. But even that was dangerous, because it made James realise that Lewis wasn’t really all that conservative: his clothing might seem unremarkable, but when James pictured Lewis, it was the subtle details that came to mind, like those pinstripes or bold polka dots on a tie. And of all the colours available—soft greens and staid blues—he’d chosen purple for James’s present. He might be surprisingly adventurous.

It was definitely a bad idea to be dwelling on this subject. James rolled over onto his back and groaned. The noise made him immediately conscious of his parents’ bedroom on the other side of the thin wall, and that awareness was enough to take care of the problem.

*****

When he first woke up, James considered going to mass again. He had done that a lot when he was home from school on holiday, to escape the house or what was in his own head. But he admitted to himself that he had no real interest in hearing another mass, decent choir or no. Christmas brought out a desire for a much more secular kind of celebration now. James resolutely pushed aside his imaginings of Lewis at Lyn’s.

James could hear his mum already fussing in the kitchen. His father would want a full breakfast today, though the thought made James a bit queasy. He rose and dressed quickly, packing his bag and leaving it on the foot of the bed.

James had brought presents, of course. He knew his mother would like hers: a certificate for a spa. He’d bought the same thing for her last year in a fit of desperation after hearing a woman in the pub telling a friend that she would _love_ to receive exactly that. He had half expected his mother to never make use of it, but she had. She’d mentioned it every time they were on the phone for months thereafter.

She received the present with embarrassed pleasure, and James’s father thanked him politely for the football tickets. James’s present was a strap for his guitar. He didn’t use a strap when he played, of course, but his parents couldn’t know that.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “It’s beautiful.”

And it was: soft brown leather tooled in an intricate pattern of leaves and vines. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have invited his parents to his concert the night before. Not that they couldn’t have asked to come—he had mentioned to his mum on the phone that he would get on the road as soon as the concert was over, so she’d known about it. James no longer had any perspective: how much of the distance between them was his parents’ fault, and how much of it was his own? He no longer actively pushed them away, but neither did he make any effort to include them in his life, or even acquaint them with its particulars.

Inevitably, James’s mind conjured Lewis: the expression that popped onto his face whenever he talked to Lyn. The pride, the warm affection—it was plain as day. His parents weren’t like that. They weren’t cruel, of course. Or even stern, really. James had no doubt they cared for him in their own way, but—

James’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden surge of horror: was that what his crush on Lewis was all about? Daddy issues? No, it couldn’t be that simple. Maybe that had something to do with it at the start: James’s eagerness to prove himself, to earn Lewis’s approval and respect. But it was more than that now, wasn’t it? They’d progressed past the point where their relationship was so unequal. Or so James hoped.

James’s aunt and uncle arrived around noon for Christmas dinner. Uncle John’s teasing had not changed: “Still a sergeant then, James?” Then came cousin Libby with her husband, Will. It was impossible to get a word in edgewise with Will in the room, not that James tried, and everything Will said was said at top volume.

It was easier when James’s cousin Freddie arrived. He was only a few years younger than James, though they’d never really been friends. But everyone was eager to gush over him and his new bride, Annie. Freddie introduced her to James—he had missed the wedding because of a case, phoning his excuses with very little regret.

Annie was pretty, cheerful, and very, very young. Clearly Aunt Charlotte had welcomed her into the family enthusiastically, despite the fact that she had borne a child out of wedlock. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen when the girl was born, from the look of her. James felt a bit ashamed of his feelings of disapproval, thinking of Lewis and his Lyn—there was his damned superiority again.

James guessed that Annie’s daughter was five or six years old. He ended up seated next to her at dinner, as if being the only one of his generation still unmarried made him little more than a child.

“Don’t you have a wife?” the girl asked after everyone had been served.

“No,” James answered.

“Do you want one?”

The question made James pause. Adults usually didn’t bother to ask. They assumed he would want to be married—an attitude straight out of Austen. “Not in the slightest,” James said.

“That’s good then.” She turned her attention to her plate.

As James watched her saw at her turkey, holding her knife in her fist, his amusement faded. He didn’t want a wife, but neither did he feel there was anything “good” about it.

His humour didn’t improve when, after the dinner dishes had been cleared, he came into the entry hall to find Freddie and Annie nuzzling one another under a spindly bunch of mistletoe hanging from the light fixture. A rush of embarrassment, uncomfortably mixed with arousal, flooded through James as he remembered grabbing Lewis. Why on earth had he done it? Only because he knew, with high holiday spirits and his drunkenness, it would be taken as silliness? He didn’t want it to be only silliness. He wanted Lewis to understand.

James strode into the front room and threw himself down on the sofa. Annie’s daughter was watching television, and James’s father and uncle were pretending not to be just as fixated as the girl. Mum and Aunt Charlotte were chatting quietly so as not to interrupt the programme. James stared at the clock on the mantel. He’d been thinking that this year it wasn’t so bad, being with his family. But at that moment, he was sick to death of it all—the mistletoe, and the turkey, and his family, and all of the ridiculous dated tradition. As if in answer to his desire to escape, his mobile beeped.

All conversation came to an end, and everyone turned to stare at him. They assumed that a telephone call on Christmas Day could only mean one thing: it must be a case. James was glad of the reminder, to himself as much as anyone else, that he was indeed an adult, with an important job and real responsibility.

James pulled the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Lewis’s number. Lewis was texting him.

_i was in a rush and never wished you a merry christmas when i left_

James couldn’t have been more surprised. He sat frozen for a moment, then hurried to type a response: _A text? Who is this, and what have you done with my governor?_

He waited, holding his breath, to see if Lewis would reply. It seemed ages before his screen lit up and showed the new message: _just because i dont text doesnt mean i dont know how_

James jumped up from the couch. He couldn’t think of how to answer with the noise of the telly and his family all there. He slipped into the kitchen and typed: _How’s the family?_

 _tired but happy_ , Lewis answered.

A second message followed immediately: _i think wee alec loves christmas_

And then a third: _though he likes the paper and boxes better than what’s inside_

James was grinning by now, picturing Lewis on the floor with his grandson in a mess of torn wrapping paper. He typed, _Not a doting grandpa at all, are you?_

Lewis’s answer made James pause: _go on back to your xmas_

Had Lewis only wanted to send a quick holiday wish? He might have just got carried away talking about Alec. Perhaps he hadn’t really meant to have an extended exchange.

James texted again, despite his doubts: _Mostly done with. Concert last night. Midnight mass. Dinner with family._

There was another pause then, the longest yet. James felt foolish, trying to force a conversation. He was ready to give up when Lewis’s response came: _family?!_

James almost laughed. The long pause must have been just Lewis trying to figure out how to type the punctuation on his phone. James was smiling again as he typed: _Of course. I didn’t hatch from an egg._

_forgive me for thinking so. odd duck that you are_

James did laugh now, so stupidly happy he couldn’t contain it.

Lewis texted again before James got control of himself: _where are you_

_Outside Birmingham._

_didnt know your family were so close_

James thought, _My family aren’t close_. But he didn’t want to discuss that. Before he could think of a change of subject, another message from Lewis appeared: _you said something about a concert_

Perhaps Lewis did want to chat after all. Hope made James’s thumbs clumsy as he entered the letters of his next message: _My group performed last night. It went very well._

_wish id been there_

James wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Was Lewis just being polite? James decided to be bold. _Perhaps you could come to the next one._

There was no pause at all before Lewis’s answer appeared on James’s screen: _yes_

It was immediately followed by another: _good id like that_

At that moment James’s mother came into the room to refill the teapot. She studied his face. “James?”

He felt like he’d been caught passing notes in school. “Yes?”

“You were smiling.”

“Was I?”

She was smiling herself now. “Yes, you were. I’ve never—”

She set the teapot down and came close, resting a hand on his arm. He peeked down at his mobile. Lewis had sent another text, but James wasn’t going to read it while she was watching him so closely. “Excuse me—just one moment.”

He stepped away from her and read Lewis’s message: _i wont keep you. merry christmas_. He must have thought the delay meant James was losing interest or too busy to continue. James stifled a huff of frustration and typed quickly: _Not at all. I’d love you to come to a concert._

There was no answer.

James tried again. _Sorry for the interruption. Family, you know._

Still nothing. He gave one last half-hearted attempt: _Merry Christmas, sir._ Then he slipped the phone into his pocket.

He looked up to find his mother still looking at him, smiling. “Is it someone special?”

James stopped the evasive denial that almost sprang out of his mouth and instead said, “I’m not sure.”

She smiled, and it was unexpectedly encouraging.

“I hope so,” he continued. “But I’ve been a bit stupid about it all.”

Without a word, she crossed the kitchen and hugged him.

*****

A few hours later James was driving south. He flicked through album after album, unable to find something to suit his mood. Chamber music seemed dreary, and the bouncy rhythms of Vampire Weekend grated on his nerves. He finally settled on Kaiser Chiefs—enough aggressive energy there to drain some of his frustration away. He looked forward to the presents he’d left out for himself: a bottle of wine and a biography of James Boswell he’d been wanting to read for years. He was determined to enjoy his quiet evening and succeeded much better than he’d dared hope. He was four chapters and three glasses along when his phone beeped.

He’d left the phone on the dining table. He leapt off the couch and grabbed it. It was another text from Lewis.

_forgot to ask. squash Thursday morning 730?_

It was after midnight. James would have bet anything that Lewis was turning in, maybe already tucked up in bed. He tried to suppress the thrill it gave him, knowing that Lewis was thinking of him at such a time, but he could feel the smile creeping across his face.

 _With pleasure, sir_ , he typed.

*****

From James’s cigarette-fueled wait for Lewis at the gym on Thursday morning to shutting down the computer at six o’clock, they barely said three words to each other that weren’t directly work-related. James almost wished they could go back to communicating only via text—it seemed Lewis found it much more difficult to talk with him in person.

It wasn’t until James was putting his coat on to leave the Lewis finally managed to look him in the eye. The sight of the purple scarf made the corner of his mouth curve up.

“I don’t suppose you’d want some dinner?” he asked.

“Of course, sir,” James answered—much too eagerly, he knew. But Lewis smiled again, broader this time.

“Indian?” he suggested. “We could get takeaway and go to yours?”

Having successfully navigated that conversation, they lapsed into silence once more, a silence that lasted while they walked to Lewis’s car, stopped at the restaurant, and drove to James’s flat. James pulled the containers out of the bag and opened them while Lewis set out plates and forks. He also pulled the bottle opener out of the drawer.

“Mind if I . . . ?” He said, gesturing towards the fridge.

James hadn’t thought to offer Lewis a beer because they had long ago passed that particular level of intimacy that allowed unlimited access to the contents of one another’s refrigerators. “No, of course,” James answered in a rush. “Help yourself. Please.”

Lewis returned to the table with two bottles and handed one to James. A small, encouraging sign. After a couple of very long sips from his beer, Lewis sat at the table and pinned James with his gaze.

“So,” he said. False nonchalance dripped off the word. “Your family’s in Birmingham?”

James managed to get a huge bite of chicken madras into his mouth just as Lewis spoke, so he was saved from answering with anything other than a nod.

“That’s not far.”

Still chewing, James shrugged but nodded slightly in agreement.

“Is it your parents we’re talking about?”

After a moment’s hesitation, James nodded again. “They moved up there from Oxford a few years ago when my father got a job as shift manager at a tyre factory.”

“You never mention them.” Lewis sounded more than a bit indignant. “I thought they might be dead.” 

“No,” James answered. He took a swig from his bottle. “Not dead.”

“Don’t you visit them?”

“Not very often,” James said. He searched his brain for a way to change the topic of conversation. “We don’t have much in common.”

Lewis dug into his rice with his fork, but he didn’t take a bite. “Not much in common, he says.”

“I speak to my mum on the phone now and then.”

Lewis was frowning now, and perversely, James felt like laughing. _Alec_ , he suddenly thought. _Get him talking about Alec._

That was enough to carry them through dinner. Most of the time James found it tiresome when people went on about their grandchildren, but it was a pleasure to watch Lewis. His eyes sparkled when he told James how Alec had hesitated to tear the wrapping paper.

“They’ve taught him not to tear up things like books and the post,” Lewis explained. “It was a favorite pastime of his for a while, you see. So every time he was handed a package, he’d look at Lyn and wait for her to say it was okay before he’d rip into it.”

James didn’t think it was his imagination that Lewis’s accent was becoming a little richer as he talked.

“This year Lyn let me make him Horlicks.”

James raised an eyebrow.

“My mum used to make it for us on Christmas Eve. Late, just before we went to bed. And Val did it for the kids. Put Mark right to sleep, but not our Lyn. Always too excited for anything to calm her down.” Lewis smiled fondly. “Alec was too little last year. He might have been this year too. He needed a bath before we were through—here.” Lewis pulled his mobile out of his pocket and found the photo he’d taken of Alec, his baby-fine hair sticking up in wet spikes and his face sticky. 

When they had finished and were clearing the dishes from the table, Lewis said, “Don’t think I didn’t notice how handily you changed the subject.” But he was smiling, so James didn’t bother making an excuse.

James set his plate on the worktop, then returned to the table for the leftovers.

“James?”

Lewis’s tone stopped James in his tracks. He had never heard Lewis sound so uncertain.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Lewis said.

James forced himself to continue moving, picking up the plastic lid for the container of chicken madras and snapping it in place. Lewis still didn’t continue, so James carried the food into the kitchen.

Finally Lewis spoke. “The twelve days of Christmas—are they leading up to Christmas?”

That wasn’t at all what James had been expecting. As opening conversational gambits went, perhaps this wasn’t Lewis’s best, but James appreciated the effort. He put the containers in the fridge, straightened, and leaned against the cabinets.

Lewis cleared his throat before continuing. “Or do they start at Christmas and go on after?”

“After,” James answered. “From Christmas to Epiphany.”

James couldn’t stop staring at Lewis’s hands. He was playing with something—such fidgeting wasn’t like him, but James couldn’t tell what it meant.

“So,” Lewis said. “I’ve still got a few more days.”

“Sir?”

“To use this as an excuse.” Lewis lifted one hand, and James saw crumpled green leaves. It was barely recognizable. Only two creamy berries clung to the withered branches, but it was undeniably mistletoe.

James froze, but Lewis was already moving, crossing the room and pulling James to him. He kissed him, gently, then pulled away.

“Do I need an excuse?”

James opened his eyes—though he didn’t remember closing them—and shook his head. Lewis was still right in front of him, and James bent his head for another kiss. He wrapped his arms around Lewis’s body and pressed close. Lewis’s hand slid around to the back of James’s head to seal their mouths together, and James sent up a prayer of thanks for Christmas, mistletoe, and good old-fashioned tradition.

The End


End file.
